Night Shift
by JenniferJF
Summary: Being a guard isn't the most glamourous job in the world. If part of your duties includes watching over Cell 426, though, at least it's never boring. DISCLAIMER: No Time Streams were harmed in the writing of this fic. Probably.
1. Night Shift

As his route took him past Cell 426, he looked in to find the occupant still sitting curled on her narrow bed, her full concentration on the small blue book which seemed to be her favorite reading material. Just as she'd been the last five times he'd crossed in front of her cell.

"Good night, Doctor Song," he called out as he passed.

She looked up and smiled. "Good night,"she replied before turning her attention back to her book.

This pattern repeated, more or less the same, the next three times he came to her cell. On the fourth, however...

The cell was empty.

And he really,_ really_, didn't want another one of _those_ on his record.

Then he remembered the advice one of his older, more experienced colleagues had once given him after a particularly strong dressing-down by the prison's governor. So, instead of running to the alarm box, he stepped around the corner and waited two minutes before popping back round to her cell.

There she was, sitting curled on her bed once more. She might have been writing in the book this time instead of reading from it, but still, she was_ there_, and that's what counted.

"Good night, Doctor Song," he said.

She looked up from her writing and answered, "Good night," in exactly the same tone she'd used every other time that night. Only her eyes, sparkling with controlled amusement, gave any indication that this time might, in fact, be different from all the others.

The guard continued on his route, relieved to have escaped another "situation". If he were honest, though, the strangest thing about Doctor River Song wasn't, in fact, how often she managed to escape. It was something else one of his older colleagues had pointed out to him. In all the years Doctor Song had been at the prison, not a single one of them had ever actually seen her sleep.


	2. A Gift for a Young Old Friend

_A/N: Got tickets to Chicago Tardis today for my son and me which has put me in an absolutely goofy mood, which is my only excuse for this ficlette which is probably, otherwise, inexcusable._

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><p>He'd been watching it grow for several days now. Each time he'd passed by her cell on his nightly rounds it was a bit longer. At first, he'd assumed it was a scarf. Then, as it had continued to grow past the two meter mark, he'd started to wonder. Finally, as it neared the four meter mark, he had to know. Stopping and approaching the bars, he asked, "Doctor Song?"<p>

She paused in her knitting and looked up. "Yes?"

"Can I ask," he began, pointing toward the long primarily brown, orange, and black strip of knitting which fell from her needles to curl on the floor around her feet, "What on earth you're making?"

"This?" she asked, looking down at her handiwork with a bemused expression on her face before looking back up at him, "It's a scarf. Can't you tell?"

"A scarf? Isn't it a bit long?"

She smiled brightly as she nodded, "Yes. It is."

"What's it for?"

"It's a gift for a friend," she explained. "An old friend. Or a young one. Depends on your point-of-view, really."

"What sort of lunatic would want to wear a scarf that long?" he asked.

She laughed as if what he'd said was funny. It seemed a perfectly reasonable question to him, though. After a moment, she got herself under control. "Exactly," she answered. Then, shooting him another quick smile as if she'd actually explained _something_, she turned back to her knitting.

With a sigh, and realizing he probably should have known enough by now not to have even bothered to ask, the guard stepped away from the cell and continued his patrol.


	3. Take Away

_A/N: I must admit, these are amazingly fun to write..._

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><p>The blare of the alarm echoed down the corridor as he rushed toward cell 46. He skidded to a halt as he found Doctor River Song still there, standing outside the bars, just exactly as if she'd been waiting for him. She was wearing some sort of fancy dress which reminded him vaguely of something he'd seen in upper form history.<p>

He stuck this observation under, "Things best not to examine too closely," a mental file which had grown disturbingly fat since his duties started including this particular block of cells.

Doctor Song's face broke into a smile as she saw him rush down the hall toward her. "Oh, good. You came. You boys are always so quick to respond to my summons. You can turn the alarm off now, by the way. Doesn't that dreadful thing give you a headache?" When he didn't move, she continued, "Oh, don't look so worried. I'm in for the night. Now."

The fact that he was absolutely positive she'd been in her cell not five minutes ago, dressed in an old t-shirt and baggy pants, did not, in fact, require any sort of mental filing. It was a sort of thing far too common for that. After he had returned from cutting off the alarm, he gestured to the cell behind her. "And now, Doctor Song, back in your cell. Please," he couldn't help but add.

"Of course." She held the white paper bag she'd been holding out to him. For the first time, he noticed the wonderful smell of... something... some _food..._ emanating from the bag. "But as I have no proper place to store this, I was hoping one of you boys would do me a favor and finish it off for me?" When he hesitated, she continued, "It's quite good. I wouldn't poison you, you know. Well... not with _food_," she added almost as an afterthought, smiling. "But it _is_ a crime to toss out Véry, and as he's not terribly fond of monkfish...?" She shook the bag slightly as further encouragement.

It was like she was speaking a different language. But, as that was also not uncommon enough to require special mental filing, and because whatever was in the bag certainly did smell better than the cold sandwich waiting for him back in his locker, he did the only thing possible. He took the offered bag with a muttered, "Thank you," waited for her to step back into her cell, and then locked the door behind her.


	4. It Gets Everywhere

The keys jangled in his hand as he approached her cell. "Good morning, Doctor Song."

She looked up from her writing. "Good morning." Then, seeing the keys, she continued, "Oh, we can skip the washing up today. I've just had a shower."

Shower? He couldn't help glancing around the cell, but, of course, one hadn't magically materialized inside overnight.

His confusion must have been obvious, because she went on, "Well, I wasn't going to wait to wash off the salt water, was I? Do you have any idea how bad salt can be on the complexion? Or the sand. That stuff gets everywhere." She paused for a moment, smiling to herself, before she continued,"I mean, _everywhere_."

He wasn't quite following her. Which, admittedly, wasn't that unusual. "Salt? Sand?" He glanced around her prison again.

"Oh. Not here," she explained, laughing. "In the ocean, of course."

"Of course."

"I could use some aloe vera, though, if the infirmary would send some down?" she suggested, pointing to her nose. "I'm afraid I got a bit distracted and forgot to reapply."

It was only then that he noticed.

She was sunburned.


	5. Having Kittens

The blare of the alarm cut through the quiet of the prison. Without even bothering to check, he started running toward cell 46.

He and Jenkins arrived almost simultaneously to find Peterson sitting on the floor outside her cell – her open and _empty_ cell – his back to the bars. As they approached, he looked up and whispered, "Shhh... They're sleeping."

"What's sleeping?" Jenkins asked.

Indicating his empty lap, Peterson explained, a silly slight-dazed expression on his face, "Her kittens. She asked me to hold them for her. Aren't they adorable?"

He and Jenkins exchanged glances. New guys. It always took them awhile to learn. When Doctor Song prepared to leave...

For God's sake.

Let her.


	6. Should Have Known Better

In retrospect, he really should have known better. But she'd been sitting there, surrounded by piles of boxes and rolls of brightly colored paper and ribbon the last three times he'd passed by her cell.

Brightly colored mostly red and green paper.

And so he couldn't help but ask.

"Doctor Song?"

She looked up from taping a ribbon around a wrapped box. "Yes?"

"Are you... Wrapping Christmas presents?"

"Obviously."

"But it's May."

She glanced down at her watch before looking back up at him, smiling brightly. "Why, so it is."

Yeah.

He should definitely have known better.

The next time he passed her cell, the boxes and the the ribbons and the paper were gone. She sat on her bed, a paper crown on her head and a plate of what absolutely positively could not be plum pudding perched on her knee.

This time, though...

He didn't ask.


	7. Seeing Things

It started out as just a few tentative notes. Within a day, though, she had progressed to simple tunes like "Mary Had Little Lamb." By the end of the week, her repertoire seemed to include nearly everything, from Tchaikovsky to Elton John. The music echoed down the corridors, reverberating off the walls, filling the entire cell block.

The day after she'd mastered it, it was gone as if it had never been.

Not one of the guards ever spoke a word about the incident, though, not even to each other. Probably because, despite everything they'd seen, none of them was quite ready to admit to a grand piano.


	8. Who Says You Can't?

In his defense, it had been rather a long week. This was his only excuse for why, upon passing her cell and finding her sitting there, checking over an enormous net spread out on the floor in front of her, that he even considered asking her what it was for.

"Catching Daleks," she answered without looking up from her task.

"You can't catch a Dalek with a net," he protested before he'd thought better of it.

"See? That's what he said. Looks like you were both wrong, though, doesn't it?" she observed, pointing to the Dalek eyestalk on the floor next to her.

While this explained the eyestalk, it did nothing to explain the pair of handcuffs sitting on the floor next to it. Daleks didn't actually have hands. She must have noticed the direction of his gaze, because she continued,"Well... he lost the bet, didn't he?"

Which he supposed, under the circumstances, was as good an explanation as any. After all, this was the woman who'd once worn a bright red fez for an entire week with the only reason given that _she'd_ lost one.


	9. Another Birthday

"Good evening, Doctor Song," he said, approaching her cell. "I didn't realize it was your birthday."

She followed his gaze to the bouquet of flowers and the bright blue and gold 'Happy Birthday' balloon rising from it. "Oh, it's not." She turned back to him. "Technically."

"Well... Happy Birthday anyway."

She smiled at him. "Thank you. It was. They threw me a surprise party... which really was a surprise, actually, because it's a dreadfully hard thing to keep track of, my birthday, and who would have thought he'd have managed it? But somehow he did, and there was a cake, and presents and..." Her voice trailed off, though, suddenly, her gaze a million miles away.

"And?" he prompted.

She looked back at him as though she'd forgotten he was there. "What do you think?" she asked, her eyes glistening a bit too brightly over the sudden flash of her smile, "Same as always. I got another year older... And came back here."


	10. Juggling

She was sitting on her small bed, a book spread open on her lap. Two small orange balls were clutched in her hands and a third sat on the blanket next to her. As the guard watched, she tossed the two balls into the air and passed them from hand to hand, exchanging them in mid air for a minute before catching them and setting them down next to the third.

"That's pretty good," he observed.

She looked up from her book, noticing him for the first time. "Thanks." She held up the book in her lap, it's yellow cover declaring it to be, _Juggling for the Complete Klutz_. "An old friend suggested I should learn. I've got two balls down, but I'd like to move up to three or more."

"Preparing for the prison talent show?" he asked.

"No."

"Why, then?"

Flashing him her most dazzling smile, she answered, "Irony."


	11. Symbolic Much?

_A/N: I'd honestly thought I was out of ideas a few days ago..._

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><p>They all thought, at first, it would be just like all the other times. That the music would, gradually, get at least a little better. Actually, to be fair, usually she got quite good.<p>

This time, however, was different.

It had been two weeks and the sound coming from her cell was still quite nearly the same awful screeching it had been at the very beginning.

Finally, he just had to ask. "Doctor Song?"

She looked up from the song book spread on her lap. "Yes?"

"Don't take this the wrong way... But we've all been wondering..." He trailed off, not quite sure how to ask.

"When this would finally start to sound like music?" she asked for him.

He smiled, relieved. "Yes. Exactly."

She laughed. "That's what I asked. He said it's supposed to sound like this, and that I'd figure it out eventually."

The guard found that v_ery_ hard to believe. "Why would anyone want to make a noise like that?"

She paused and thought for a minute. "Honestly? I think it's_ meant_ to annoy people. Part of its charm." She glanced down at the small wooden flute in her hand. Then, she started to laugh.

"What's so funny?"

After a moment, she'd recovered enough to answer, "Nothing. Only I think... I've finally managed to understand the recorder."


	12. Location is Everything

_A/N: Additional warning on this one for adult situations and innuendo. If you're not at least over 17, you should probably skip this one. _

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><p>This time, she insisted on coming into his office and explaining the situation personally.<p>

"But, governor," she said, "I didn't actually escape, did I? I mean, I was there in the supply cupboard the entire time."

"Yes, but you still weren't in your cell, were you?"

"That wasn't actually my fault, you know."

He knew – he _really_ knew – he shouldn't ask. But he did anyway. "Why?"

"Because I'd told him I could untie it, with my teeth, in the dark, before anyone would even notice I was gone. And he wanted me to prove it. So I did."

"Then why weren't you back in your cell?"

"Well..." she began, and then, flashing him her most brilliant smile, continued, "It's really all a question of where he _tied_ the bow-tie, now, isn't it?"

Which was why absolutely nothing about the incident ever appeared on her record. There was no way, after all, he was going to even begin to try to explain _that _in writing.


	13. How River Almost Killed Her Family,Again

He hadn't bothered to ask how she'd gotten the original material into her cell, or any of the the tools she'd been using. He was, also, absolutely certain he didn't want to know how she planned to get it out. But when, nearly two months after she'd begun, it looked like she was finally finishing up, he just couldn't help himself. "It's lovely. What's it for?"

"One of my favorite holidays," Doctor Song replied, standing back and admiring her work.

"Halloween?" he guessed.

She shook her head.

He tried again. "Christmas?"

She shook her head again. "No. April Fool's Day, actually."

He was opening his mouth to ask but thought better of it. Still, he couldn't help but wonder... What kind of a practical joke could possibly require a life-sized stone angel?

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><p><em>AN: Yes, I know the crash of the Byzantium almost certainly happened at the end of River's Stormcage time and that she asked the Doctor then if he'd heard of the Weeping Angels. I'm assuming, though, that she already knew the answer and, most probably, the events of Blink. Thus, the question was pure Doctor bait._

_A/N2: This story, btw, is dedicated to my 8 year-old daughter who is going to be the absolutely most adorable Weeping Angel ever for Halloween. The dimples sell it. And no, sweetie, there's no way Mommy's making you a Silence costume for next year._


	14. Cravings

"Good evening, Doctor Song," he said as he passed her cell.

"Good evening. Oh, could you get me the phone?" she asked, stepping to the bars. Then, smiling brightly, she added, "I'd _kill_ for a pizza."

As she had the right to at least one outgoing phone call a day, he obliged. He had to admit, though, that he occasionally found her sense of humor a bit disconcerting. Under the circumstances. Nevertheless, he handed her the phone and she turned her back to him to make her call. Then, with a "Thank you, that will be all," she passed it back to him through the bars.

Because he had worked at the prison for several years and had been responsible for that particular corridor for most of those, he was fully prepared to find Doctor Song seated on her bed eating a freshly delivered pizza the next time he passed by her cell.

He was wrong.

She _was _sitting on her bed, but she wasn't eating. Instead, she was scribbling in her small blue book. And, instead of the baggy cotton pants and t-shirt she'd been wearing, she was dressed in a black evening dress. And next to her...

"Change of plans?" he asked, approaching her cell.

She looked up from her writing. "What do you mean?"

"I thought you were ordering pizza," he explained.

"Oh, I did. In Italy. It was very good."

Pointing to the object on the bed he continued, "Then what's with the Cyberman head?"

She flashed him her most brilliant smile. "Multitasking." And then, as though that were actually some sort of explanation, she went back to her writing.


	15. Translation

He should have kept right on walking past her cell. But he didn't. "What are those?" he asked instead, pointing to the large stack of scrolls on the floor next to her desk. He already knew better than to question the desk.

"They're from Alexandria."

"Alexandria?" The name sounded familiar.

She glanced down at the scrolls and shrugged. "Well, Caesar was about to burn them all anyway, wasn't he? Completely accidentally, of course... but still. Anyway, it's not like anyone's ever going to know. And we've got the room. _Now_. She's very good at that sort of thing."

She smiled up at him. "Of course, the entire collection needs to be properly inventoried and catalogued. Otherwise, it's just stealing. And cheating. At least, that's what _he_ says." She rolled her eyes. "Like he's one to talk. And since I currently seem to find myself with quite a bit of time on my hands, I'd think you, of all people, would appreciate my putting it to _some_ good use..."

Before he could respond, or even begin to properly sort through what she'd just said, she continued, holding up the scroll on her desk, "This one's one of my favorites. I think I might hang it on the wall." She held it open for him. "See?"

There was a portrait on the scroll. A portrait which looked very familiar. "Is that... No. It can't be."

She held it next to her face for a side-by-side comparison. "They did a good job, didn't they? Never did them any good, of course," she added, almost as an after thought.

He _really_ wasn't going to touch that. Instead, pointing at the small pictures above the portrait, he asked, "What are those?"

"Those?" she asked, glancing at them. "Hieroglyphics. Ancient Egyptian writing. From Earth."

"I wonder what they say?" He'd known it was a mistake, though, as soon as he'd asked the question.

He was right.

Smiling proudly, she answered, "Roughly translated? 'Wanted. Dead or Alive'."


	16. Good Lord, Are Those Shoes?

In the years he'd been guarding Cell 46, he'd seen her wear some fairly outrageous outfits. This one, though...

Words failed him.

This must have been clear from his expression, because, turning around in front of him so he could see it from every angle, she asked, "Outrageous, isn't it?"

He could only nod, still speechless.

She smoothed out the red-orange... good lord, were those sequins on _velvet_?... robe. "Apparently, in order to understand a culture, it's necessary to walk a mile in its shoes. Or, in this case, the entire getup." She straightened the head-piece which rose from her shoulders to expand, like an absurd two-dimensional mushroom, behind her head. "And he might have a point," she continued. "Wearing this, I think I can finally begin to understand."

"Understand what?"

"He's actually been dressing _down_."


	17. Relativity

"I thought you'd said you had a romantic evening planned?" he asked as he escorted Doctor Song back to her cell. Her elegant evening gown now resembled nothing as much as a used oil rag. A well-used oil rag someone had decided to rip partly to shreds. Though, truth be told, unless his nose was deceiving him... He'd never encountered sheep manure in a garage before.

"Yes... well... Apparently, his definition of 'romantic' isn't quite the same as that of anyone else in the universe." Then, as she stepped through the door and turned to wait for him to lock it behind her, she added, flashing him her most brilliant smile, "Bless him."


	18. Dangerously Unstable

They had only just reached Cell 46, and Peterson was still turning off the blare of the alarm when they heard her voice behind them. "It's okay, boys. I'm back."

Turning, they found her staggering down the corridor toward them. She looked as though she'd been through a war: her curls a tangled mess, patches of dirt and grease smeared across her face and clothing. She almost certainly belonged in the infirmary.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

She nodded. "Yeah. I will be." Reaching her cell, she turned back to look at them. You know," she observed, grasping one of the bars for support. "He was right. That Nitro-9 really was unstable. Though if he didn't want anyone to use it, he probably should have gotten rid of it years ago. Leaving it lying about like that... well. What did he expect?" Then, a brilliant smile cut through the dirt and the grime and her obvious pain as she continued, "Sure did a number on that old warehouse, though."

And, with that, she limped over to her small bed and threw herself down upon it. Then, for the first time any of them could remember, Doctor Song slept.


	19. Instincts

She was curled on her bed reading as he passed her cell. "Good evening, Doctor Song."

"Hullo," she said, looking up from her book. Then, grabbing the tin set next to her, she held it up and asked, "Would you like a biscuit?" He must have looked confused (well, that probably went without saying), because she quickly continued, stepping to the bars and waving the tin by way of invitation. "They're quite good. My nana sent them, and she always bakes far too many. At least for me." She glanced into the tin and observed, more to herself than to him, "Used to drive Mum mad when we were kids."

He'd been guarding that particular corridor for quite some time, so he didn't even try to unravel what she'd just said. Instead, he smiled, said "Thank you," and took a biscuit.

It was still warm from the oven.

Which was, actually, pretty much exactly what he'd expected.


	20. Back to Plan A

The guard found her standing at the front of her cell, holding a small wax paper bag out to him through the bars. "Have a jelly baby?" she offered.

"What?" he asked from where he stood, unwilling to approach closer. He'd been warned about her.

She shook the bag slightly. "Jelly baby?" she repeated. Then, reaching inside the bag, she pulled out something small and red and held it up for him to see. "It's candy." She popped it into her mouth and said around it, "Quite good, actually."

Well, what harm could it do? He stepped forward and picked a small yellow candy out of the bag. "Thank you," he said, and ate it. She was right. It was good.

"So, gonna let me out, now?" she asked, indicating the lock on her door.

"Seriously?" he said. The other guards were right.

Mental.

She glanced down at the bag in her hand before stuffing it into her pocket with a sigh. "One day, that'll work. Can't blame a girl for trying, though," she said. Then, smiling up at him, she continued, "Guess it's back to Plan A, then..."

He moved fast, but not fast enough. She grabbed him through the bars and pulled him in for a kiss.

When he woke up several hours later feeling like a complete moron and with a massive headache to boot, he learned that his three days was actually one day longer than Pierson's. Fitzsimmons, though, held the record at six, which made him something of a prison legend. And then Adams, who'd had three in the pool, took him out for a beer off her winnings. So, all in all, really not too shabby for his first week on the job.


	21. Happy Halloween

"Good evening, Doctor Song," he said, nodding to her through the bars of her cell.

"Good evening," she replied without looking up from her book.

She was still sitting there, curled on her bed reading, the next time the guard came round. "Good evening, Doctor Song."

"Good evening."

Then, as he'd passed her and could start to see round the bend in the corridor... Hanging from every pipe, every alarm box, every light fixture... For as far as his eye could see...

Strips of thin white paper.

Everywhere.

He'd never seen anything like it before in his life; it had certainly _not_ been there a few minutes earlier.

Turning around, he found Doctor Song standing at the bars of her cell, smiling brilliantly at him. "Happy Halloween."

For once, though, he managed to get the last laugh. He made her clean it up. And – this time – it took her all night long.


	22. Name Dropping

Doctor Song sat on the floor of her cell, opening the large flat package which had arrived for her earlier that day. "What's that?" the guard asked.

She looked up as she answered, "A gift from Liz X."

"Liz... You mean the Queen of England?"

"Yup," she said, standing up and pulling a framed picture out of the box, "She wrote that it's been sitting around the archives of the collection for as long as she can remember and she figured I'd like to have it. Sort of a 'thank you' for some help I recently gave her in showing off a weakness in their security." She leaned it back against her bed and stood back to take a look. "So, what do you think?"

He took a long look at the painting, a portrait of a young man in a tweed coat and bow tie. "It's very well done," he decided after a minute.

"It ought to be. It's a Van Gogh."

"Doesn't that belong in a museum?"

She chuckled. "Yeah. Probably." Then, turning to him, her eyes dancing with amusement, she continued, "But... for God's sake... don't tell him I said so!"


	23. Would She?

She was holding up a glossy photo sheet for him to see as he passed by her cell. "So... what do you think of it?" she asked.

He stepped closer to take a look at the bright candy-apple red ancient automobile in the picture. "It's... lovely," he replied. "What's it for?"

She turned the page around so she could look at it. Smiling at it, she explained, "It's my birthday present. He'd originally bought a yellow one. But, seriously, who gets a _yellow_ speedster?"

The guard was half-way down the corridor before a sudden thought had him rushing back to her cell. "You're not... you know..." He gestured around the prison. "Going to try driving it... here?"

He'd been working there long enough to find the gleam in her eyes just a little bit alarming as she answered, smiling widely, "Now... Would I do that?"


	24. Almost Making Sense

Doctor Song was packing.

Again.

This was never a good thing. However, he had enough experience to know not to interfere. This time, though, he couldn't resist asking, "Where are you going?"

"Cruise ship." He was already opening his mouth to ask the obvious follow-up question when she continued, "The Titanic."

Which did, at least, explain the dive gear.


	25. Why Can't They Aim?

As he passed her cell, Doctor Song was seated on her small bed, muttering what sounded like curses under her breath, though he couldn't understand a single one of them. She was scrubbing furiously at a large reddish purple stain on the skirt of the amazingly complex multilayered gown she had on.

"That'll never come out," he observed. It had been a long night and he was bored.

"Tell me about it," she agreed, stopping her work to look up at him. "And this was one of my favorites. Why does this always happen to me?"

"What did happen?" he asked. It had been a _very _long night.

"Napoleon. Another lousy shot."

"Doesn't look like it from here."

She sighed. "Except, of course, he wasn't actually aiming at me."


	26. Boy's Night Out

She was staggering across her cell, barely upright, when he found her. "Doctor Song, are you alright?"

"Yes," she said, nodding without turning to look at him, her words noticeably slurred. "Just... Never evereverever enter a drinking contest with Brigadier. Alistair. Gordon. Lethbridge. Stewart." She threw herself down onto her bed. "Never. It can be done. But it ain't pretty."

"I'll try to remember that." When she giggled, loudly, he continued, "You _sure_ you're alright?"

"Oh. Yes. I'm fine. As long as _he_ never remembers." She giggled again. "And who'd have thought anyone dressed in that much velvet and ruffles could still be such a good kisser?"

He had no response for that. Fortunately, he wasn't going to need one; Doctor Song had started to snore.


	27. GreenEyed Monster

Her dress was dirty and torn. Again. And it smelled like...

"Doctor Song?"

She turned towards him. "Yes?"

"Have you been crawling through _sewers_? Again?"

The prisoner shook out her skirts and petticoats, screwing up her face as she observed the stains covering them. "It _is_ the only way out of the Tower of London."

"Tower of...?" He tried to remember his history. "What on _earth_ were you doing there?"

"_Apparently_, Old Liz doesn't appreciate being called a flame-haired - Anyway. Did you know insulting the Queen can be considered treason?" she asked, smiling innocently up at him.

"Old... Wait. Do you mean Queen Elizabeth the First? The Virgin Queen?"

"If I have anything to say about it."

"Why would you-" he began before he could think better of it.

"Well, as it turns out," Doctor Song explained, laughing, "I really _am_ the jealous type."


	28. Be Careful Who You Pose For

She was just slipping the roll of canvas down into its metal storage tube as he approached her cell. "What's that?" he asked.

Doctor Song glanced up sharply at him and dropped the tube to her side. If he hadn't known better, he'd have thought she looked almost guilty. "Nothing. Just an old painting."

"Can I see it?" At least with her around, his job was never dull.

She smiled brightly at him before shaking her head. "No."

"What is it, then?" he asked.

Her answers might not always be understandable; in fact, they generally _weren't_, but she usually gave one anyway. Probably, he'd long suspected, because their confusion amused her. This time, though, her answer was even more enigmatic than usual. "A mistake." She grimaced slightly at the container before muttering, almost to herself, "Seriously, what's wrong with flowers? Or chocolate? That man..." Then, looking back up at him, she continued, "Thankfully, though, it turns out to be a lot easier to break someone else out of the Tower than to get out yourself. Because, I swear, if I'd had to crawl through the sewers _again _and ruined _another_ dress … Well, I'd have _killed_ him." She must have seen the expression on his face because, eyes dancing with amusement, she added, "Again."

This time, though, he _really _didn't see what was so funny.


	29. So Far

_A/N: And, in honor of the wonderful time my son and I had today at Chicago TARDIS, and since this is the best way I know how to pay tribute short of sewing plastic canvas TARDIS Christmas tree ornaments for everyone I know (and that *can* happen), and the fact I've been so busy the last week to finish up work so I could get here I haven't really had time to write anything, I give you this meager offering:_

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

She was opening the package as he passed her cell. "Oh... No. No. Absolutely not. No way."

"What is it?" he asked despite himself.

Doctor Song didn't answer. Instead, she squeezed her eyes shut for a minute. Reopening them, she looked back into the box and swore.

"What is it?" he repeated.

She reached down inside and began pulling out the brightest red and blue striped knit stocking cap he'd ever seen; it seemed to go on forever. By the time she'd finished, the end curled about her feet. She shook her head in resignation. "I was _really_ hoping that, if I swore to never _ever _let that man get anywhere _near_ a knitting needle..." She sighed. "I guess some things were just meant to be." Glancing down at the hat in her hand, she concluded, "But there is no way in _hell_ I'm ever wearing it. Even love only goes so far."


	30. Standards of Sorts

_A/N: Another Chicago TARDIS inspired fic. Let's call it an homage, shall we?_

_-o-o-o-o-o-_

Doctor Song was just stepping back into her cell as the guard rushed up the corridor towards her. Without saying a word, he locked the cell door and went to turn off the blaring alarm. By the time he returned, she was sitting on her bed eating. "Sorry," she said, smiling apologetically. She indicated the plastic jar in her lap. "I almost forgot the peanut butter. Celery's rubbish without it." She held up the stalk she'd been using as a scoop.

He nodded. "I suppose it is." He'd learned long ago that she wasn't really expecting much of a response anyway.

She went on, talking mostly to herself as she looked at the half-eaten celery in her hand. "I suppose he'll always just go get another one, though." Then, looking back up at him and smiling brilliantly, she continued, "But there was no _way_ I was kissing a man with _that_ in his lapel."


	31. Who Knew?

_A/N: And sometimes, I write these just for me. If I'm the only person on the planet amused by this one, it's well worth it._

_-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-_

She was wearing a long striped knit scarf which hung to the floor and curled about her feet. He could just catch a glimpse of the tweed blazer she wore beneath it, the large white ruffles of her shirt peeking out at the bottom of its sleeves. She held a black umbrella with a question mark in one hand and a small wooden flute in the other. A yellow straw hat with an orange ribbon trim perched upon her head.

Until that moment, he had actually thought he could no longer be surprised by anything Doctor Song was wearing.

"What. In the world. Are you. – "

"Did you know," she began, ignoring him completely as she began taking off her bizarre attire and setting the pieces down on her bed. "That the man actually has _fans_? Who get together from time to time just to _talk_ about him?"

The guard looked at her blankly.

It seemed to be enough of a response. "Yeah. That was my reaction. But it's true. And the theories they come up with..." She broke off, laughing. "One of my personal favorites: that he's actually a large green shape-changing gelatinous blob capable of absorbing and emulating any other life form he encounters. I'm especially proud of that one; it's one of my better efforts. And you can just imagine the action figure..."


	32. Preposterous

_A/N: Oh, come on, how many of you didn't see this one coming? Special thanks (uber extra special extremely thankful thanks) to AstraPerAspera... she knows why. Also, why is it that when she says she's cleaning out her inbox I get scared?_

_-o-o-o-o-o-o-_

He stopped outside her cell. "Is that a... fish?"

She glanced up from where she'd sat reading on her bed towards the small bowl on her shelf before turning back to him and smiling. "No. It's the queen of England."

He sighed. "What's it doing there in that bowl?"

She chuckled. "Well, she wouldn't last long _out _of the bowl, now, would she?"

Which was actually impossible to argue with. Instead, he reminded her, "You're not allowed to have pets, Doctor Song."

"Oh, it's not mine. I'm just holding her for a friend." She glanced over his shoulder and down the empty corridor as if expecting her friend to materialize out of thin air. "The dear idiot still hasn't figured out he's got the wrong fish." Her gaze returned to the guard. "You might want to keep on moving. By the time you get back, she should be gone. Got it?"

He nodded dumbly and, turning from her cell, continued on down the corridor.

Behind him, he heard her mutter to herself, "And maybe finally, for once, he'll be glad I didn't just do as I was told and take her back to the pet store."

Which, of all the absurd things he'd ever seen or heard guarding cell 426, was probably the _most_ absurd. The thought of _anyone_ thinking they could tell _her_ what to do was completely preposterous.


	33. Ask a Stupid Question

Doctor Song was standing in her cell; her sleeveless coverall was stained with blood and she gripped an equally bloody sharp wooden stake in her hand.

"What on earth have you been doing?" the guard asked.

"Hunting."

"Hunting _what_?"

"Vampires."

"Vampires aren't real."

She rolled her eyes. "Well, of course. Not any_more_." She laughed and glanced at the stake in her hand. "And it's a damn good thing. Those suckers are hard to kill." She looked down at her clothes. "And – more importantly – _hell_ on the wardrobe."


	34. Cool

She was sitting quietly on her bed, legs curled beneath her. "Good evening, Doctor Song," he said as he passed in front of her cell.

She looked up from the object she'd been slowly twisting in her hands, startled out of her reverie by the sound of his voice. "Oh. Good evening." Her polite smile failed to reach her eyes.

"Are you alright?"

She nodded. "It's April the twenty-second." Which wasn't really the explanation she seemed to think it was. He opened his mouth to say so but, before he could, the familiar sound of grinding machinery filled the corridor. And maintenance had _sworn_ they'd fixed that. Doctor Song's gaze shifted to over his shoulder, but when the guard glanced back, the passageway was empty. "And, you know what?" she continued as he looked back at her, her eyes dancing above the smile which now stretched across her face.

"What?"

She held up her hand, displaying the small strip of cloth she'd wrapped around her palm. "Bow ties _are_ cool."


	35. Don't Ask Me

She was standing outside her cell as he came around the corner. Well, at least he assumed it was her. It was impossible to be absolutely certain it was actually her inside the ancient astronaut suit she wore.

And why on _earth_ she was carrying a cricket bat...

He opened his mouth to ask but immediately thought better of it. Instead, he stood silently in the corridor as she stepped back inside her cell and locked the door behind herself. Then, still without having spoken a single word, he continued on down the corridor.

He'd learned a long time ago. Some things just _had_ to be ignored.


	36. More Like a Really Good Mare

The guard tore through the corridor. As he skidded to a halt in front of her cell, Doctor Song was just pulling herself into a sitting position in bed. Tucking her thin blanket more securely around her waist, she asked, "Yes?"

Breathless after his run, the guard panted, "I... thought... I heard...screaming."

Doctor Song smiled at him. "Oh. No. You must have been mistaken."

He examined her more closely; she looked a bit flushed. "Are you sure? You don't look well."

"Don't I?" She glanced down at herself, smoothing one palm over her cotton tank-top. "I feel fine." She looked back up at him. "Maybe I had a nightmare?" she suggested.

The guard _thought_ he heard laughter coming from over his shoulder but, when he turned to look, there was nothing there.


	37. Presents

_A/N: Spoilers for The Doctor, the Widow, and the Wardrobe, though only very mild ones and nothing plot related. Not really._

* * *

><p>"So, you finally finished it?" he asked, nodding toward the black-and-white knit jumper sitting amidst the other items on Doctor Song's bed.<p>

She glanced up from where she crouched on the floor wrapping gifts to her bed. "Yes. It's for my dad. Though Mum'll nick it for herself."

The guard opened his mouth to ask the obvious question but thought better of it. Instead, he asked, "What did you get her?"

The prisoner pointed to the bright plastic object next to the jumper. "Water pistol." She turned back to him and smiled. "Someone else'll end up wearing that, though, too."

He didn't even consider asking about _that_. "So, whose that for, then?" he asked, indicating the large box she was covering in bright blue paper.

"Oh, I'm wrapping this as a favour for a friend. He's rubbish with Sellotape. Not sure he should be trusted with scissors either, if it comes right down to it," she observed, almost as an after thought.

"What is it?"

She looked back at the box. "A very bad idea, if you ask me. Might as well fill their stockings with matches. Though I didn't tell him that, of course." She sighed. "He'd probably think _that _was a good idea, too."


	38. Cupboards

_A/N: This one should be T for innuendo. And I'm sorry._

* * *

><p>"Don't tell me. Halloween?" he asked, stepping up to the bars of her cell.<p>

"Nope."

"Birthday?"

She laughed and shook her head. "No."

"Then...?"

Doctor Song glanced down at the leather bikini and loin-cloth style skirt she was wearing and shrugged. "Just cleaning out the cupboards. Finally."

He waved at her outfit. "Isn't that rather an odd choice for house cleaning?"

"Yeah... but you should see the other guy. Although, I can now answer that age old question..." She paused; a slow smile spread across her face. "What they've got on underneath those kilts."


	39. The Old Girl Is Cleverer Than You Think

_A/N: Teen for Innuendo_

* * *

><p>She was back, standing in the center of her cell.<p>

Of course she was.

The long elegant evening gown she wore was covered in stains.

Of course it was.

"Good night, Doctor Song?" This time it was a question.

She turned towards him, aware of the guard's presence only as he spoke, and nodded. "Yes, very."

"Ruined another one?" he asked, waving towards her dress.

She glanced down at the stains and sighed. "Unfortunately. Engine grease and oil are terribly difficult to remove. Probably not even worth trying. Should have avoided them, only of course I wasn't really paying proper attention at the time."

He knew better than to ask why. Instead, he nodded to the purple stain at her hip. "What about that one?"

She followed his gaze. "Jammie dodger." Before he could even open his mouth to ask, she continued, "Just trying out something my mum suggested." She looked back up at him and chuckled, shaking her head. "Glass floors..." Her smile grew brilliant. "Works even better _without_ the knickers, though."


	40. But Who's Counting

He paused in front of her cell, looking in silence for a full minute before finally asking, "Don't tell me. Lost a bet?"

She followed the direction of his gaze. "Nope."

"Obscure alien tradition?" he tried again.

She looked back up at him. "Nope," she repeated.

"Fashion statement?"

She chuckled. "No."

He thought for another full minute. "Out of paper?" he suggested lamely.

Her chuckle turned into a full laugh but she shook her head.

"What then?" he asked, finally giving up.

Doctor Song glanced back down at the black tick marks covering every inch of her exposed skin before looking back up at him. Smiling brilliantly, she explained, "It's April the first again."


End file.
